Sort of an Angel for HimCh 1
by Riann13 A.K.A vampire at large
Summary: I can't tell you you'll enjoy it. But I can tell you that if you like Vincent Valentine, you'll want to read it, ;D


Prologue

She ran, the blood from the bullet wounds that riddled her body dribbled onto the dense foliage she was attempting to use as an escape from soldier-for-hires and their rather vicious hybrid dog/wolf monsters known as Fangs.

"Shit I screwed up…" She cursed silently to no one in particular. "Shit shit shit shit…" Her upper left arm had the worst of the wounds and wouldn't move by itself, but the fear of possibly never being able to use it again didn't register. It wasn't her main gun-arm. She was only focused on making it back to headquarters alive, providing that she could salvage something from this botched mission. Knowing that little fact gave her the determined, stubborn strength that earned her the nickname "Hard Luck Rianna." She wasn't about to give the boys back at HQ something to torment her with.

Rianna struggled to control her breathing, but she was exhausted. Running anyfarther wouldn't gain her anything. She halted, nearly swaying unconscious from bloodloss and fatigue, and decided it was now or never to kill those that were chasing her, because it was unacceptable for any to find out who she was, even worse for them to discover who she worked for. "Shit shit…shit…shit…" A fern behind her growled. She tensed, waiting for the right moment.

Chapter 1

"The girl has long dark-crimson hair, perhaps just above the knees; She's probably anywhere between 5'3'' to 5'6'', rather well-built, and a mess of bullet wounds." There was a pause. "She's currently sprawled out on my couch, Reeve. She doesn't appear to be much older than Cloud." The somewhat tall man spoke in a soft rust-like voice on a disposable cell phone; the one named Reeve could only be his "boss" of sorts. He had onyx-shadowed hair that spilled down his back in slight waves to almost his waist, tight black leather pants, and a red inverness that had seen better days. His left arm was incased in a brass-toned "Demon's Hand," a type of armor most used as a kind of restraint. But the most striking thing about this pale-skinned, dark-featured man was his bloody crimson eyes, and the hint of a troubled past in a piercing gaze that seemed to bore into one's heart. He continued to speak in a softer than normal tone, as though trying not to stir the unconscious girl in the main room. "No, I do not know her name yet. She had no form of identification on her; nothing but a coin-purse with a few hundred Gil inside, and an empty revolver that seems to fire 13mm rounds." He was silent for a bit, taking in what Reeve said next, then spoke again. "When I came up the landing to my apartment, the girl was already unconscious on the tiles in front of the door. I don't know how she had managed to make it that far before collapsing."

"Wait-" He interrupted. "I think she's coming to. I'll fill you in later." He hung up on Reeve, going into the living room when her almost inaudible moan-a signal regaining consciousness-reached his sensitive ears.

She started, reaching for her semi-auto revolver in fast motion on the black-smoked glass coffee table in front of the simple cream-colored loveseat she was laid out on, forgetting it was empty as she aimed it towards the dark stranger who stood before her.

"It's empty." He said when she pulled the trigger, receiving only that percussive clicking a gunman knows as sure-death. She swayed, and he caught her by her less injured right arm. He said nothing as he resettled her onto her back, though a strange feeling almost caused him to chastise her softly about moving too quickly in her state. He left the room, perhaps giving her a little space to adjust to the strange surroundings.

Rianna took in the shadowed, simple décor of what was assumed to be the living room of a decent-sized apartment. Looking towards the window, she found the blinds tattered and falling apart like that dark-haired man's crimson inverness. She could see the night through the various holes that adorned the gray plastic coverings. The room was lit with a single dim lamp, in the far corner near the front door; it seemed as though he had no need of it, but had just because.

She laid her head back on the armrest, no feeling alerting her of danger. Even when Rianna had drawn her unknowingly empty revolver on reflexive instinct she had only felt an almost tranquil peace in this place; a safe-haven. Rianna's eyes fluttered, and then the dark sleep of exhaustion took her over once more.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"You still among the living?" He asked, shaking her gently from the darkness. "Here." He set down a steaming dark blue mug with a chipped handle and a white paper plate with two slices of toast that had crunchy peanutbutter spread onto the coffee table before her. Unmoving, Rianna dared to look into his face, and almost simultaneously they both flinched. Her eyes were as crimson red as his!

"Who are you?" Was spoken by both. Rianna tried to sit up, but the attempt was short-lived. She fell back onto the loveseat, clutching at her wounds, finding them already dressed and bandaged. "Did you…?

"Who are you?" He asked again, ignoring the obvious question she had just posed. "And why did I find you before my door?" She arched an eyebrow.

"How rude. Shouldn't the one who asks be the one who introduces first?" Rianna's tone was bold, chastising him for his social faux pau.

"Forgive me, then. You may know me as Vincent." He spoke, adding a small mock bow to challenge her tone.

"Does this Vincent have a last name…? She asked again in her charming little way.

"…Valentine."

"Ooo, how mysterious." She smiled, revealing the possibility of fangs. "I am Rianna Seraeph, otherwise known as 'Hard Luck Riann.'"

"Now that I have your name, perhaps you may be able to inform me as to why I found you unconscious and bleeding before my door." Vincent said, directing the conversation. She looked into his face, taking in the stoic lack of expression in all but the piercing crimson gaze that mirrored her own before stating, "No clue" as she turned away, her face red from a strange embarrassment.

"You must be famished, having slept for so long. Or are you allergic?" Vincent questioned, gesturing towards what he had set before her.

She sniffed the toast with peanutbutter, before taking a rather delicate bite, revealing the truth that she did have longer-than-the-norm canines.

"Oh yay, it really is Jif!" She remarked, her smile crinkling her lightly freckle-dusted fey-like nose.

"Good; it's all I have right now." He said, a small smile playing across his lips. He let her eat a while longer, before speaking again. "So you really haven't a clue as to why you were before my door in the hallway…"

"Not at all, sorry." Rianna apologized, taking a sip of the cooling herbal tea in the blue mug. "This is wonderful. Did you make it yourself?" She asked Vincent, complimenting the tea.

"Hm? Oh. Yeah, I did." He responded, snapping out of his train of thoughts.

Rianna set the mug down, and nearly dropped it from the sudden spasm of pain that went racing through her body like white-hot, icy lightning.

"Are your wounds bothering you?" Vincent asked, concern written in the tension of his jaw; of the slight knitting of his brow.

"A-a little." Her voice couldn't hide the pain as well as she had hoped. "But it's mostly from malnourishment-I've lost too much blood. My iron count is far too low for me to be able to control myself for much longer." She stated, her voice betraying how intolerant she was.

"Control yourself how…? I'm not qualified enough to be able to give a transfusion, let alone having the equipment or blood supply." Vincent said, his brow knitting deeper.

"You don't have to be." Rianna spoke. Her voice was almost hoarse with the strain. "C'mere." Her words slurred. He came closer, thinking that she was losing her voice and needed to ask for something. Vincent leaned over Rianna, and that's when her resolve broke. Her less injured right-arm snaked around the back of his head, her fingers threading through his onyx hair, finding it to be softer than it appeared.

"I'm sorry…" She whispered, and before he could ask why, Vincent felt Rianna's soft, rose-petal lips on his neck, then the sharp, long canines bury themselves into his skin. A small, sharp hiss of breath escaped his mouth, but Vincent didn't try to remove Rianna's grasp from his neck. Something deep within himself told Vincent that she wasn't going to kill him, but might if he struggled, however unintentionally. She pulled herself away from the intoxicating bittersweet taste of Vincent's life, refusing to put her little-known savior into danger of extreme anemia, fighting the part of her that always said, _it wasn't enough, we need more!_, the results of past torturous experiments done against her will. Rianna shuddered, trying to force the horrific memories away, pleading with them, with **her**, to go away. She blacked-out once more with the effort.

Vincent fell to one knee, his black-leather gloved right hand going to the still bleeding wound at his neck. His breathing heavy, Vincent stared at the unconscious Rianna, her lips smeared with his blood slightly parted. Her whispered words echoed in his head:

_No more, Maligna, no more!_


End file.
